In the kitchen baking, sunny Saturday morning, all happy cuz it’s the weekend and the rain has stopped. IPod on shuffle, super danceable song comes on. “Oooooh,” I think, “this is pretty good,” shimmying to the dock to check it out. POKEMON SOUNDTRACK?!?! Hahahahahaha.
Danced my way to lots and lots of chocolate chippers for his lunch box. Sandwich fillings? That’s a whole nother problem.
A bacon butty would do. Fix his wagon. Daily. In the best possible way. It’s there, in bold, page 14 of the manual on him. My conscience screams noooo. Nothing to stick the bacon to the bread? No butter mortar? Also, there is the small issue of him eating bacon daily.
Oh go on, my conscience relents. Remember last year when the powers that be, that eternity ago, told you, in no uncertain terms, that his wheels would fall off en route to middle school? Remember that? There he goes, daily, wheels gaining purchase. Bacon grease lubes his mental motor. Pack that boy a bacon butty.
Around here parents urge, “Choose a healthy snack, honey,” and that kind of gags me, too. Do we have to have camps, teams, chasms? When did cookies and bacon become unhealthy? Not to mention – here goes – butter.
The word healthy has been scraped into to my verbal compost bin, on top of the decomposing low-fat and natural. We will drag those poor tired words out in 20 years for the 2011 theme party. Meanwhile, scanning the horizons for fresher choices. Here’s a good one: FOOD! “Choose a food snack, honey.”
The Sublime Miss M is thinking of the lunch box, too, rolling with the seasons. BLT’s revolving out, PB&J revolving in. She sent along the news from Blackberry Farm, a place that rests at the end of the rainbow, a place where perfect is the friend of good, a place where peanut butter and jelly have been hushed, a place where imperfect is the timeless perfect.
At the Blackberry Farm of my mind, a person may travel by their choice of locomotion to the lunch table. Dancing legs, wagon wheels, sublime rolling. Come on for a bacon butty. Peanut butter mortar.